


A Fractured Fairytale

by ExorcisingEmily



Series: Before the Fall Verse [17]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Apocalypse, Demon Blood Addiction, Fallen Castiel, Gen, M/M, Marriage Proposal, References to Drug Use, Self-Worth Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-27 15:38:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/663662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExorcisingEmily/pseuds/ExorcisingEmily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world is ending. Somehow, this involves pop-culture references, movies, marriage, wrestling, and quality family time.</p><p>The boys are not Legolas and Gimli, no matter how long Sam grows his hair. The world’s ending around them, and sleepless nights are spent arguing over the movies that Castiel is required to see, as a novice to humanity. Cas may or may not be Liv Tyler, and Darth Vader is not an acceptable rolemodel.</p><p>It’s the Apocalypse all over again, and Dean’s sure he’s not supposed to be this content.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you're reading the Before the Fall 'Verse, these tales will flesh out the Apocalypse for you, and also the relationships of the characters between battles and big bads and episodes. While not required reading, if you want to find out how Cas fell, or why the world is ending again, or how things are falling apart, or how Cas and Dean advanced where they are in their relationship, I recommend cruising by the rest of the 'Verse. Meanwhile, enjoy!

_Queen of Light took her bow, And then she turned to go_  
The Prince of Peace embraced the gloom, And walked the night alone.  
Oh, dance in the dark of night, Sing to the morning light.  
The dark Lord rides in force tonight, And time will tell us all.  
Oh, throw down your plow and hoe, Rest not to lock your homes.  
Side by side we wait the might of the darkest of them all.

\- “Battle of Evermore,” Led Zeppelin

The night Chicago burned, the Winchesters watched the glow on the horizon from atop the abandoned building they had claimed for refuge, watching smoke plume into the air and blacken the skyline, stinging their eyes. The flood of escaping humanity never came. Sam quietly voiced that maybe they’d gone west, but none of them believed it any more than they believed the news that it had been riots that caused it.

This was their second battleground. Detroit was still smoldering ruins. Dean would never admit to himself that the fact was morbidly comforting, another change from what had been in 2014. It wasn’t enough to justify thousands dead, and it made him queasy to consider it.

They stop watching for traffic when the sun goes down, clambering back down the fire-escape and into the second story window of the dilapidated, abandoned building. The pungent smell of spray paint dominates within, overcoming even the smoke outside, and they carefully resalt the windowsill before joining Cas.

If he’d ever been human, Dean would think Cas was reliving some misspent youth as a tagger. Balanced on their cooler, he’s intently focused on the wall before him, the can of paint in his hand hissing until it runs out, sigils and symbols and graffiti of ancient languages long dead, and when Dean puts a new can into his hand he doesn’t stop to thank him, trapping his Enochian in lines and shapes, twisting them into something demonic to deal with their little angel problem, just as he has traced angelic sigils to deal with their demon problems.

Dean knows how much he hates this: but Cas has learned to accept it, their new standard of living. Funny how quickly an angel could get over blasphemy, when it saves their lives.

“You’re still huffing the paint, then, Cas?” Sam grumbles as he collapses into one of the camp chairs, pressing his hands over his eyes, and Dean knew Sam was never going to get used to how not-normal the world was becoming. He was never going to be able to shrug off a Chicago or a Detroit.

“I’m working. I am not huffing.” Cas begins, an almost defensive note creeping into his flat tones, and Dean winces as he rests his braced hand on the small of Castiel’s back to support him as he shifts to reach and finish his sigil. He wouldn’t have led with a drug joke. “I assumed the effects would be negligible compared to amphetamines and opiates. Which I am also not doing.” He assures Dean, and the hunter doesn’t think he’s completely imagining the bitter twist to the words.

When Cas finishes his sigil, he hands the paint to Dean and slips down off of the cooler, leaning into Dean’s side for a moment, neither admitting they were seeking support but both relieved by it. “It was demonic. Inias and Balthazar were discussing the damage. Lucifer’s agents freed several dozen Grigori from Hell through Bachelor’s Grove. Crowley moved to stop him. I believe he held the crossroads contracts on several prominent politicians within the city, and manipulated the first riot in order to institute Martial Law. They held the cemetery for a time, but . . . ”

But Lucifer was winning. It was very little comfort to any of them to know they were right about the placement of a Devil’s Gate in the haunted, abandoned cemetery on the southwestern outskirts of the city, when they hadn’t been able to reach it to secure it before the riots and the National Guard had cut off their access. Hell’s civil war still spilled upwards into the world regardless, and the only word from Heaven was garbled, scattered. The power upset between Michael and Gabriel at least was confined to Heaven, and relatively civil. Gabriel had never wanted power to begin with. He just had a bit more problem with non-interference than Michael, and none of them could imagine the Trickster Archangel taking orders from anyone.

Sam nods slightly, tilting his head back and looking up at the ceiling as the last of the sunlight slides away, a tightness around his eyes and tension in his long frame that wouldn’t dissipate. “Well, there aren’t any demons nearby right now.”

The whole knowing when demons were in the immediate vicinity thing would be more awesome and less creepy if Dean didn’t know it was because his brother was hyperaware of them as potential snacks, ever since Lucifer’s lieutenant had force-fed him blood again. The early days of withdrawal hadn’t been pleasant, but it had surprisingly been Castiel who had stepped up for that, gluing himself to Sam’s side. He owed it to his friend, Cas reasoned: he had let them down the last time Sam had gone through it, by freeing Sam to kill Lilith, he felt responsible for Sam’s situation (regardless of whether or not either of the boys agreed) and he had just gone through withdrawal from his own drugs. He could empathize.

There was no panic-room cage this time. It hadn’t even been an option, with Bobby’s place burned down. They had struggled through it on the road, and in rundown buildings like this one.

“No use pretending any of us are going to sleep. I say hex bags tonight, then.” Dean declares finally, tugging on the angel’s belt loops until he can push him into the other camp chair, while Dean hauls the cooler over to them and grabs the nondescript black backpack from the floor. “Queue us up, Sammy.

Living with two people in a constant state of headache and varying stages of recovering addiction, on the edge of the end of the world, wasn’t exactly anyone’s ideal, but there were some things about it that Dean quietly cherishes. Despite the weary sniping, he doesn’t think that their family had ever been closer. It’s a conscious decision, and he knows it. Sam was worried that Dean was going to say yes to Michael. Castiel was worried that his brothers were going to get ahold of either Winchester. And Dean. . . well, he just worried about his family as his default anyway, and between Sam and the demon blood and Castiel’s issues, he wasn’t letting either out of his sight. Even Bobby calls to check in the same time daily, since he split to check on the hunters who stopped answering his calls.

(They weren’t hopeful. Not since University of New Mexico’s campus was razed to the ground, and Price Campbell died with his books, his research, and their hopes that Asmodeus hadn’t delved into Castiel’s memories fully.)

The world is falling down around them, but this Dean can’t quite help enjoying, no matter how guilty he feels for having anything to enjoy while the world burns. Sam’s Christmas gift, the laptop Dean had purchased for him and the library of movies Castiel had bought that they apparently referenced constantly, had become their only means of escape while on the road. Charged religiously by the adaptor Dean allowed Sam to plug into his car for this precise reason, it was on until the battery died each night they were somewhere without power, or until the last of them finally dozed off when they could plug in.

Settling on the floor shoulder to shoulder with his brother, leaned against Castiel’s knee, they create a production line of protection spells and hex bags. Some nights, it’s weaponry. Some nights, it’s pure research. But they work together seamlessly, keeping their hands constructively busy while they squint at the screen on the cooler in front of them, teaching Castiel the greats of movies and television.

Dean had let Sam have the first pick as he always had let Sam have the remote of the motel room television when he was sick, reasoning that he had most need of distraction. His little brother had cheated and chosen the director’s cut Lord of the Rings.

They were still working through the movies days later, but Dean’s muttering about it is halfhearted, and he nudges Castiel and points out things more often than Sam, so no one was buying his story about this being _Sam’s_ geeky obsession.

The bickering starts almost as soon as they find their place in the show, with Castiel rumbling at them to keep quiet, blue eyes intently focused on the screen, and part of Dean finds it hilarious that Castiel fixes that singular attention that had always been a mixed blessing for Dean (its usual focus) on everything they show him as if he is studying for humanity. It’s his fault, however, that Dean and Sam have begun arguing ‘roles’ in everything they watch.

“. . . don’t care how long you grow your hair, Sammy, you _still_ don’t get dibs on Legolas.” Dean snipes, as Cas passes down a small square of burlap, the fabric scrawled with Castiel’s familiar script in Sharpie, each square plucked from the mesh cup holder of the chair and laid across Cas’s knee as he works on it, usually single-handed as he absently runs his fingers through Dean’s hair as the hunter leans against his leg. Dean portions out the goofer dust, the hemp and lavender, and passes it on to Sam for the spider’s egg and chicken bones, and then each finished hex bag joins the growing collection to the side.

Every hunter they found got one thrust upon them, and every clued-in member of the clergy or law enforcement that Bobby knew, or they had stumbled upon in their travels, got as many as they’d take. They’d saved lives, hidden hunters from demons. . . it wasn’t enough, but it was _something_ they could offer, and on the nights none of them could sleep, something they could do from behind their fortifications without showing their mugs while they were top of the most-wanted list for every side of this war.

“Please, you’d make an awesome Gimli. I mean, violent, funny. . . _short_.”

“I can still kick your ass, Sasquatch.”

“Yeah, Gimli thinks that too.”

“You are both making it difficult for me to focus on the movie.” Castiel huffs quietly, and Dean snorts, sending the goofer dust scattering and forcing him to stop to sweep it into a neat pile.

“Yeah whatever, Gandalf.”

“I am not the wizard, Dean.” Cas responds absently, and Dean has to grab the next square of burlap before it falls, because Cas isn’t paying attention to the delay. Tilting his head back, he looks up at Cas, and then nudges Sam with his elbow, drawing his little brother’s attention and jerking a thumb to direct it at Cas, who is watching the movie as if entranced, rapt and upblinking, the sharpie moving across the fabric without him consciously directing it, and Dean’s pretty sure he’s marking up the knee of his jeans too.

Laughter shaves ten hard years off of Sam, and Dean had _missed_ that sound. He ducks his head, trying not to let himself smile because it’s the end of the world, and he shouldn’t have anything to celebrate. “C’mon, Cas. You showed up randomly in our lives, had the answers, doled out the mojo, been alive for frikkin’ ever. . .”

Cas frowns quietly, and blinks as he looks away from the computer screen, and Dean knows what he’s done. That was _Castiel_ -the-angel, not _Cas_ -the-awkward-hunter, and Cas never seemed willing to accept a heroic role anyway. He can see Cas coming up with a counter that would ruin the mood, so he refuses to allow it. “Liv Tyler, incoming. Both of you pipe down.” Dean commands, waving his hands to shut up both his brother and the angel before he leans back into Cas, linking his hands together behind his head and humming his approval for the actress with a smirk.

Sam missed the moment, and he never really cooperates with Dean’s plans anyway, so he ignores the command for silence. “You’re seriously going to sit here and perv on Liv Tyler, Dean? Little _obvious_ , don’t you think?”

“How is that obvious?” Cas asks, and the hang-dog look he makes behind Dean’s back should be criminal, as he turns his attention studiously to the fabric rather than look at the screen and the reminder that first and foremost, Dean’s attraction wasn’t to ‘nerdy’ fallen angels in male bodies. Reaching past his (painfully obtuse) older brother, Sam pokes Cas in the arm and points at the screen.

“No, actually _look_ at her, Cas. The big blue eyes. Pale skin. Dark hair. The jaw. The lips. Noticing anything?”

“Yeah, that she’s frikkin’ _hot_. Sorry, Cas. Just a fact, my stating it doesn’t mean anything.” Dean mutters, still trying to focus on the screen, though he frees one hand to pat Cas’s foot comfortingly. Head canted to the side, Castiel ignores him, staring at Arwen with a furrowed brow, and Sam waits patiently for him to put it together.

“. . . oh.” Cas finally exclaims, and Sam nods once, slowly, allowing the silent conclusion that brightens the angel’s face again.

“And _now_ he’s on the right page. I knew he’d get there eventually.”

“Get where?” Dean asks, only half listening, and he tips his head back to look up at Cas questioningly, who leans forward and presses his lips to Dean’s forehead.

“Nothing. You may resume ‘perving.’”

“Awesome.” Dean agrees readily, picking up the next empty bag, before he pauses and looks over at his brother suspiciously, and then up at Cas. They agreed to that way too quickly, for his possessive boyfriend and the little brother who was way too interested in his love life, and they were both amused at something. “What did I just miss?” Taking in Castiel’s intent focus, canted head, and slight smile, Dean blinks. “. . . Wait, are _you_ checking out Arwen, Cas? Because that’s. . .”

Sam rolls his eyes, and reaches over to grab the half-finished bag out of his brother’s hand after a moment, snorting at Dean’s glazed look. “You’re doing it again, Dean. Tell me that wasn’t just you going off into porn-land with that the thought of you, Cas and Liv Tyler?”

“. . . Can you imagine?”

“ _No!_ Don’t even go there. I don’t want to ‘imagine’ _anything._ ”

“I don’t think I would be Arwen. Apart from the physical characteristics. . .” Dean splutters, and Sam wouldn’t be surprised if he got whiplash from how quickly he turned back to the screen, before looking wide-eyed up at Cas, eyes roaming his face. “. . . it’s not a fitting role, and I do not believe I want you to continually equate me to the princesses in your cultural mythology.”

“Alright, so I’ll bite, just to change the topic from Dean confusing reality and porn _again. . ._ who do _you_ see us as, then, Cas?”

“The obvious answer would be to attribute you the roles of Frodo and Sam. . .”

“The frikkin’ _Hobbits_?” Dean objects, but Sam waves a hand to back him down, watching Cas.

“I think I kinda see where he’s going. So, I’m Frodo, then, right. . . ?”

“Wait, we’re the hobbits. . . and I’m _Sam_?!” Dean is less than thrilled with this assignment, and Cas seems to regret having spoken at all. Slouching down in his chair, Cas fixes his eyes on the work, to give himself something to keep his hands busy, as Dean has turned around completely to face him now, ignoring the last of the movie. “How the hell am I Sam?”

“Sam’s the real hero of the story, Dean.” Sam offers quietly, then makes a face. “Damn that sounds weird. And egotistical. ‘Course, I’m Frodo in this so I guess not as much. He keeps making you the loyal one, Dean. Which. . . y’know. . . you _are._ Han Solo could have ditched Leia and Luke, but he didn’t because he loved Leia and Luke was practically a brother, so they won. Frodo would have never made it without Sam, he’d have been killed or warped.” Cas is practically fidgeting, now, too aware of the scrutiny of both boys, and uncomfortable with this being turned back to examine _him,_ and his thought processes. “Sam nearly killed himself because he wouldn’t leave Frodo to deal with the ring alone. And the ring. . . it’s power. It’s a sign of temptation, like trying to get Luke to the Dark Side. . . and he keeps making me the one that overcomes it and stays heroic.”

Sam hasn’t even pretended to work on the hex bags since taking Dean’s last, and he’s watching Castiel fondly, shaking his head slightly, and even with everything falling apart around them, proving they weren’t exactly doing a great job of saving the world, even with the fact that neither of them is storybook heroic, Castiel’s faith in them is solid. Unbroken and idealized.  “I don’t really know what to say to that, man. Thanks.”

Dean still doesn’t know how to take this. Frowning, he sits back on his heels, looking at Castiel, who refuses to meet his eyes. “So okay, fine, that’s how he’s casting us. So then Cas . . .”

“The movie is over.” Cas interrupts woodenly, pushing himself to his feet and reaching over to close the laptop. “We don’t know how long it will take any survivors to clear the city, or if the battle will resume and push this way. Someone should keep watch and you drove last, Dean, and you’re still injured. You should rest.” And Sam. . . well, letting him sit up watching all night for demons didn’t seem wise, when they couldn’t be sure what he’d do if he found them.

Both brothers frown identically at Castiel’s back as he snatches up his coat and retreats through the window, carefully resalting it and clambering up the fire escape to the roof, and there’s no doubt he’s running away from the conversation. Dean rounds on Sam as soon as he’s out, voice lowered. “What the hell was _that_?”

“I don’t think he wants us asking that question.” Sam mutters, and he rakes his bangs back from where they’ve fallen into his eyes, expression pensive. “Which I guess stands to reason if he was associating with Vader in the last movies we watched together. . .”

“Seriously, if _one_ Gollum joke about the coffee’s enough to . . .” But Sam’s shaking his head to cut his brother off.

“Doesn’t fit. It’s not the same archetype.” Drawing his long legs up, he rests his elbows across his knees, the hex bags forgotten, thinking.

“Alright, then, Sammy. Put that summer you dragged me around talking my ear off about these books to use, and figure it out.” Dean grouses, as he carefully parcels away the ingredients into the bag again. “ _Vader._ What’d catch him about Darth Vader in the first place?”

“Vader was supposed to be a hero.” Sam mutters absently, and it’s a puzzle for him as much as it is something he’s genuinely concerned about. Whether or not they buy into Cas’s interpretation of things isn’t as important as the fact that _Cas_ does, and it’s giving surprising insight into the inner workings of the fallen angel’s head. Dean hasn’t been the only one watching Cas slide, or the only one he means something to. Sam’s voice is gaining conviction, purpose, figuring it out. “He was tempted by power, told it was the only way to save the people he loved. He got turned around, then redeemed himself by . . .” Sam’s hazel eyes snap to Dean, wide and alarmed. “Boromir.”

“Son of a _bitch_. . .” They’ve reached the conclusion at the same time. Dean shoves himself to his feet, the rest of the ingredients forgotten, and stops halfway to the window, suddenly torn. They’ve been playing guard duty with Sam, whether any of the three of them wants to call it that, and those _loyalties_ they were harping on about are suddenly torn. “Sam, I. . .”

“Dean, she tore his head up pretty bad. And if I were going to crack, I think I would have already.” And Cas trusted that Sam wouldn’t break. It means a lot, figuring out that unguarded opinion, unintentionally given. So _this_ means a lot, too. Rising to his feet, he rests a hand on Dean’s uninjured shoulder, with a reassuring squeeze. “I won’t go anywhere. And if I feel anything coming I’ll get you. Just. . . go talk to Cas.”

Dean claps his brother on the shoulder and nods his gratitude, swallowing his words. Sam already knows he’s awesome, or he should by now, and Dean’s going to have to trust him. Dean _wants_ to trust him.

And Dean wants Castiel to listen, to understand that he’s as much the hero of this farce of a story as they are.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean’s ribs protests as he slips out the window once more, and it’s an awkward shuffle to get up the fire escape again between the half-healed stab wound on his shoulder and his braced opposite wrist. The wind has shifted, and the acrid smell of smoke from the distant fire is thick enough that once he reaches the top Dean breathes through his sleeve for a moment as he watches Cas.

Swathed in the black trench coat Dean bought him for Christmas, his face turned towards the sinister glow of Chicago, hands tucked into his pockets, Castiel seems half lost in the gloom: dark hair, darker coat, drawn in on himself and silent. Dean’s urge to yell at him, shake some sense into him, eases as he watches the angel stare at the destruction they failed to prevent, knowing that no amount of television escapism was enough for any of them to forget.

Cas would shut him down if he started with yelling at him for being an idiot, and he doesn’t have words otherwise. He was going to have to wing it, again.

Cas knows he’s there, but doesn’t turn as Dean slips up behind him, sliding his arms around Cas’s waist loosely and stepping forward to bring the slighter man up against his chest, and they stare at the distant destruction, nauseated, sick with guilt and weighed down by the loss of life.

“We should have been able to save them.” Castiel’s murmur wouldn’t have carried past the two of them even if there were anyone to hear, but it was the words they were all thinking, the thought that would haunt all three of them for the rest of their lives. If Dean had put the pedal down a little harder, if they’d given up the few meager hours or rest they’d allowed themselves, if they’d pushed harder, or come to conclusions faster. . .

If they’d killed Crowley when they had the chance. If they hadn’t failed in a million other small ways, or hadn’t broken when it had counted.

They would have burned in Chicago, though. Dean doesn’t doubt it. Still, his reassurance feels hollow even to him.

“Survivor’s guilt, Cas. We just. . . we weren’t going to win this one. They had us too far away to reach it, and we can’t be everywhere.”

“I used to be able. . .”

Sighing, Dean leans into Cas, burying his nose into the fallen angel’s dark waves of hair that smell like Dean’s shampoo and the clinging smell of smoke that they never seemed to be able to escape now. There’s none of the lingering electricity that had always seemed to chase in the angel’s footsteps before he fell, and he’s warm and solid and human in Dean’s arms. “Yeah, well, you’re not Gandalf anymore.”

Sensing a change in Dean’s tone, or picking up on his intent, Castiel stiffens, still and forbidding as stone, and Dean drops his arms from around the angel, taking a single step back to allow Cas space to turn and face him. He knows Cas is trying to wall him off when he takes a step back himself, taking him to an actually decent conversational distance. Giving them both ‘personal space’ is pretty much a dead giveaway, when it comes to Cas. Humanity might have begun to teach Cas about human customs and interactions, but Dean remains the exception to the rule. “So. Let’s talk about Boromir. And Darth Vader.”

Closing his eyes, Cas shakes his head slightly, and maybe it’s just the smoke making his voice rough, but Dean doubts it. “I would rather not.”

“So Sam _was_ right, huh? _Sam’s_ forgiven you, _I’ve_ forgiven you, and you’re the only person who can’t move on past the fact that you fucked up. You still planning on the big death scene, Cas?” Anger has Dean straightening, scowling at the fallen angel, who holds up a stilling hand that Dean completely ignores.

“I am _not_ attempting to commit suicide, Dean. I know that is what you believe, and I know that my actions have done little to convince you otherwise . . .” The low, reasonable voice is fuel to the fire, and Dean steps into Castiel’s space again, looming.

“Gee, y’frikkin’ _think_. . .?”

“But I already _have_ died. Three times.” Heat has finally crept into Castiel’s voice, a low growl of displeasure that he has to remind Dean of this fact, and he barrels on rather than allow Dean the chance to counter him, staring Dean down unflinchingly. “You can view that however you wish, Dean, but the simple fact is that I have died three times for you and for Sam, and I _do not regret that_.  Fighting Raphael. Attacking Michael. Resurrecting you, and my brothers and my sister, those humans at Storm Lake. Those are all things that I would do again. I cannot _begin_ to understand my Father’s will, but he has brought me back each time, and I cannot help but think that. . . this is what I am _made_ to do, Dean.”

Standing close, looking down into Castiel’s upturned face in the growing dark, Dean frowns as he brings a hand up to Castiel’s cheek, dry palm running over the thin sheen of prickly stubble he perpetually forgets to deal with, and rests his forehead against Cas’s without closing his eyes. Even this close, he can’t see the blue for how dark it’s growing, but his mind fills in all the details he’s memorized. “Cas. . . that’s a pretty fucked up mentality. Nobody’s made just to die.”

“Dean, all things die. We are all made that way. Even angels die, I know that better than. . .” Turning his head away, he tucks his arms around himself as he distances them again. “. . . I have lived a long life, Dean. And now my time is numbered. Understand, even if we live to grow old together, it will be a blink of the eye for me. Our time is finite, because human life is so very limited.”

Grimacing, Dean shoves his hand into the pocket of his jacket, other clenching fingers around his brace, and it’s his turn not to look at Cas. “Yeah, well, sorry you’re looking at living like this as a death sentence, but. . .”

“ _Do not._ Deliberately misunderstand me.” Castiel bites out, his words clipped and angry, voice deep, dry-roasted and rough. He takes a breath before continuing, tone evening out, quieting again. “I have lived more in the past six years since I met you than I have in the millions of years I have existed. And the past seven months with you, I have _lived_ Dean. I do not regret this.” He gestures vaguely at himself, and Dean knows what he means. His fall, his humanity, their relationship. “I don’t want that to _end_. I don’t want _us_ to end. But I am going to die, and if I were to choose the manner of my death. . . I would choose dying to redeem myself in some small way for my sins. I would choose to have it be to save the people I love. And I will not apologize for that to you, of all people.”

Dean looks for a way to argue that, and huffs quietly. Raking his hand though his hair nearly becomes clobbering himself with his wrist brace, and it irritates him further. “It pisses me off that you keep seeing yourself as a bad-guy, Cas. You’re not a monster.”

“Perhaps not any more.” But Dean knows that Cas is placating him: the words lack conviction. “But I _was_ the monster, Dean. Please don’t deny that. I just. . .” Drawing in on himself, Cas ducks his chin to his chest, letting his breath out in a soft sigh. “I am too tired to keep fighting with you. I can’t fight this war and you at the same time. Over a _movie_. We need to be together, all three of us. We are going to die, and likely soon.” There was that blunt honesty that was just so charmingly, depressingly Cas. “I want to want it to count for something when I die, and I want to live while we’re alive.”

And that is what they are doing, Dean realizes. Movies and bickering, piled together and unwilling to separate, coming together as a family, even stubbornly fighting a losing war. Dean has lived a last year on earth before, and he should have recognized it this time around, but he had been too deep in it to see how they’d been living.

Odds are, the world will be over by 2014. Even if they stop the Apocalypse, there’s no real telling if they’ll be around for the aftermath, when everything will have changed. Any one of the three of them can die any day, and they’re living under the gun. Every day counts.

It’s a spur of the moment decision, and yet. . . it really isn’t. The brace gets in the way of pulling off the ring he has worn for years, one of his only valuables, and he really wishes his hands were steadier, but he has a bum shoulder and a cracked wrist and Cas isn’t really going to judge him anyway. Pulling Castiel’s hand from where he’s tucked it beneath his elbow, he presses the ring into his palm, throat dry as he curls Cas’s fingers around it. “I want you to have this, okay? I’m gonna ask you a question that goes with it, when we live through this. . .”

Head canted to the side, blue eyes wide and questioning, Castiel stares unblinkingly. “ . . . I don’t understand.”

Dean can’t decide if he wants to laugh or sigh or cringe, and they keep doing everything ass-backwards, but. . . well. He’s shuffled enough. It’s time to go all-in, while there was still time to. “I’m going to ask you to marry me, Cas. Make an honest angel out of you. But I’m not gonna do it while we’re waiting for the world to end. So. We gotta _live_ through this. Until then. . . just, y’know. Keep that safe for me.”

Castiel blinks at him slowly, and opens his palm to look at the ring in his hand. “Dean. . .”

Oh, God. He didn’t want to. Dean hadn’t really considered that Cas might say no until that moment, though he could think of a dozen or so reasons why he _should_ say no. Rubbing the back of his neck, he looks away. “I mean, if you don’t . . .”

“Don’t do that.” Cas warns, low and deep, and he resolutely slides the ring onto his own finger. His ring finger. Where Jimmy Novak’s wedding ring had sat until the day he took it off for safekeeping before giving himself up as Castiel’s vessel. “You misunderstand me. I held your soul in my hands, Dean Winchester, and rebuilt you from dust. You carry a piece of my Grace within you, and my mark on your body and your soul. I will go through with whatever ceremony you require to formalize our relationship, if it makes you comfortable, but so far as I am concerned they are superfluous. You are mine. And I am yours.”

Dean gapes a moment, before spluttering. “Dude. Did you just turn my proposal around on me and then bypass like, the _entire_ engagement thing and declare us already married? Because if you did, I’m letting _you_ take the ass-kicking Sammy and Bobby promised.”

Castiel arches his eyebrow slightly, and even in the dark Dean can see his lips turn up at the corners faintly, though there’s still a weight on him, pressing his shoulders down, keeping the light from his eyes, and Dean knows that’s Chicago, that’s their failure, because he feels it too.  He chooses really crappy moments for life-changing conversations, but the point was to do it while they still had a life ahead of them. “From what I heard, you were not even proposing yet, merely stating an _intention_ to propose in the future if we survive. Which seems redundant. You are adding steps, from what I understand of human customs, which. . . if you’re only doing this because the world’s ending, it seems prudent for us to skip to the . . .”

It was becoming something of a habit, kissing Cas to shut him up, Dean’s injured hand presses to the back of Cas’s head, his hair catching in the Velcro of the brace on Dean's wrist, and he hooks his other arm around Cas’s waist again beneath the edge of his trenchcoat, dragging him in close and tipping him back as much as the injured shoulder would allow, sealing their lips together. It’s a point of pride that he can leave Cas breathless, dazed and most importantly speechless with a little effort (and he’s never exactly begrudged that kind of effort). Tracing the seam of Castiel’s lips with the tip of his tongue, he teases his mouth open and then retreats, making Cas surge up into him with a quiet protest, chasing the kiss and his tongue, and into the warm cave of his mouth, tasting him, before air becomes necessary again, and the smoky gasping inhale leaves his eyes watering.

“I’d have asked even if the world wasn’t ending, Cas.” Dean corrects him hoarsely after they break the kiss, ghosting his lips over Cas’s jaw, the stubble leaving his lips tingling as he tips Cas’s head to lay a slow, open-mouthed kiss over his pulse, relishing the purring hum of approval it elicits from the angel, and he speaks up over it, voice firm and carrying: he doesn’t want Cas misinterpreting this.  “I’m not trying to pull a ‘til death do us part’ just ‘cause I figure death’s right around the bend anyway. So wear the damned ‘superfluous’ ring.”

“Wait, _ring?_ There’s a ring involved?” How a friggin’ moose like his brother could sneak up on them on a rooftop, Dean would never understand. With an exasperated groan, he hides his face in the crook of Castiel’s neck, carefully pulling his braced hand back while taking as little of Cas’s hair with the Velcro on it as possible.

“You have the worst timing in the world, Sam. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“You took too long.” Sam says, and there’s no apology to it. He wasn’t exactly king of patience these days. “Go back to the part where there’s a _ring.”_

“A superfluous ring.” Castiel corrects dryly, and Dean jabs him in the side lightly for egging Sam on, before reluctantly turning to face his brother as Cas tangles their fingers together, refusing to let Dean go entirely despite their audience.

“Sure. Laugh it up, Cas. You get to explain to my brother how we’ve been ‘angel married’ for a while when he’s already demanding a rewind button so he can fangirl over our love life.”

 “You didn’t _buy_ a ring.” Sam says with such conviction that Dean’s pretty sure he needs to find a way to keep Sam out of his things, and then get him a girl so his little brother stops living vicariously through him.  “And wait, _married_? No frikkin’ way. . . You just cost me fifty bucks!”

. . . And Bobby and Sam were apparently _betting_ on his love life. “I need a drink.” Dean declares, and presses a quick kiss to the back of Cas’s hand before pulling away.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean has to resort to using the side of his knife rather than his ring, opening his beer, and he’s still nursing it as he sets a camp lantern down and checks the salt lines and locks and barricaded windows on the bottom floor of the abandoned building, while listening to the rise and fall of Sam’s voice and the low, steady rumble of Cas’s periodic replies as his companions come back in from the roof.

He can hear Cas start down the stairs towards him, and raises an eyebrow when their bedroll hits the ground at his feet, turning a questioning look at Cas, who shrugs awkwardly. “Sam declared that ‘if we’re honeymooning we’re taking it down here,’ and he assures us he will not attempt to leave through the fire escape and will ‘work on his timing’ and ‘cover his eyes and announce himself’ before he comes down here. And then he called Bobby, and began relaying everything. At which point I excused myself before they could interrogate me further.”

“We really need to get him a girl.” Dean groans, but he doesn’t object when Cas crowds into his personal space, nuzzling the side of his neck and pushing his jacket off, and he was going to end up looking like he had rug burn on his neck. Perils of falling in love with a guy who never remembered to shave, which. . . well, he never expected, but life had a way of throwing curveballs. He changes his pronouns accordingly. “Or y’know. Some _one_.”

Cas absently hums an agreement, and then suddenly plucks the beer out of Dean’s hand, ignoring his protest as he finishes it, clicking the ring against the glass indicatively. “This was your mother’s.” He says, in lieu of absolutely nothing, his voice serious, blue eyes earnest. “Sam told me it’s the only thing you have of her. He approved of my having it, eventually, but threatened my life if I lost or undervalued it. I’m sorry for calling it superfluous. I will take care of it.”

“You damn well better, since you’re gonna be wearing it from now on.” And thus it involved taking care of himself, as well. Tugging the empty bottle from Cas’s hand, Dean carefully sets it aside and catches Castiel by the lapels of his coat, running his fingers along the leather and tugging his angel in closer. That’s _his ring_ on Castiel’s hand. Dean’s never been the possessive one of them--that honor goes to Mr. ‘Brands You On First Sight’ Castiel, and the rib-writing that he’d probably added ‘if lost, return to owner’ instructions in, and the apparent latent jealous streak they’d stumbled upon--but he finds the fact that he’s just marked Castiel as _his_ distracting. Smirking wickedly, he pushes the coat off of Castiel’s shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. “Let’s go back to that part where you said something about a honeymoon.”

“ _Sam_ said something about a honeymoon.” Cas corrects him, but his fingers are working on Dean’s buttons as well, and he reacquaints himself with Dean’s skin as he reveals it, warm fingers sliding across his chest. “He then contradicted himself by arguing to Bobby that we do not get to ‘skip to the end’ and that you never said ‘I do’ and therefore we’re not married. I think he was quoting something.  Again.” There’s the faint thread of familiar exasperation at not knowing a reference that had started them on the path to tonight’s arguments. Dean blinks, staring at Castiel, who stares back questioningly, head canting to the side.

With a soft curse, Dean tilts to look past him at the stairs, yelling up to his brother at the top of his lungs.

“I am _not_ the frikkin’ _Princess!”_

“ _Maiwwage! Maiwwage is what bwings us. . .together. . . today!”_

“I am _going_ to kick your ass!”

“ _Maiwwage, that blessed awwangement! That dweam. . . within a dweam!”_

Groaning, Dean rests his forehead against Castiel’s shoulder and stops encouraging his brother by arguing. The big geek would just keep quoting _all_ of The Princess Bride until Dean had to walk away, and Dean would be called Buttercup for the rest of his life. “I’d be frikkin’ Inigo Montoya and he knows it.” Dean complains to Castiel as he looks up, and Cas stares at him blankly. With a huff of laughter, he gives up and kisses the confusion off of Cas’s face, only slightly surprised when Cas takes the gentle press of lips and turns it heated, slipping his hands into the back pockets of Dean’s blue jeans and yanking him flush against the angel, who pours himself into the kiss, walking Dean backwards until he hits the wall and squeezing Dean’s ass through the fabric between them.

“Are you done bickering with your brother, now, Dean?” Cas growls quietly, only barely breaking the kiss to get the words out and punctuating them by nipping Dean’s lower lip gently, tongue soothing the bite after.

“Impatient, aren’t you?” Dean teases, and Cas pulls his hands out of Dean’s pockets, taking his frustration out on Dean’s clothing instead, mindful of his injuries.

“We are in a separate room from your brother for the first time since Missouri, and you _almost_ asked me to marry you tonight.” Dragging Dean’s shirt off of him finally, he tosses it towards their still rolled bedding. “You are still wearing far too much clothing given the situation.”

Well, when he put it that way. . . Dean twists them, reversing their positions and pinning Castiel against the wall, and smirks against his skin, completely unhelpful as Cas fumbles with his belt. “I really never shoulda taught you sarcasm. How long are you planning on giving me shit for the proposal thing, Cas?”

Pressing his hands to Dean’s chest, Cas gently eases him back, blue eyes wide, head canted slightly, and there’s a faint quirk to the corner of his mouth that Dean wants to kiss, just because it’s honest and hard-won these days. “For the rest of our lives, Dean.” Cas promises, serious and earnest, and damned if that isn’t the right answer after all.

They wake the next day to a smoke-blackened sky, and a world still rocketing toward its own end. It’s harder to lose themselves in their little family unit when the sun is up, and the news over the radio of the Impala is giving the death counts of riots, of fires, of tsunamis and hurricanes. Eventually, Dean reaches over and pops in a tape just to break the brooding silence that grows with every passing news report, and eventually he gets his brother involved pointing out to Cas how many references to Tolkien are made by Led Zeppelin (perhaps not entirely coincidentally, even within Dean’s favorite song “Ramble On,” and he knows that pointing it out has debunked any claims he had of not being a closet geek like Sammy). There’s a sense of forced levity to it all that fools none of them.

The conversation is short-lived. Bobby calls with news about Camp Chitaqua’s destruction, and silence descends on them all. Castiel stares out the window at the road rolling by, his forehead against the glass and eyes distant, and Dean has no words to offer him. Asmodeus rifled through Cas’s memories against his will, plucked from him what she needed about Hell, about Lucifer’s prison. . . and about every friend he’s made in a half a year of humanity, every place they’ve gone to ground, every defense Castiel put into place to protect against them. They’d warned them, tried to give them time to scatter, but some of the people they’d met, they’d never see again, and any who lived. . . they were homeless and on the run now, too, for knowing them.

Cas is shouldering every loss as if it is his own failure.

Sam buries himself in helping organize the hunters that remain via the internet on his phone, trying to share their wins back to his companions. The San Antonio group that Sam had worked with while Dean recovered, PISA, has gone underground. George Mackey’s cabin had burned, but the resilient old professor had escaped the fate that claimed Price Campbell and kept his people organized, abandoning the locations the boys had visited.

The Winchesters won’t know where or how they have moved. Mackey won’t compromise the safety of a group of well-intentioned, informed civilians, and whether intentionally or not the Winchesters had endangered them. None of them are truly hunters, but they communicate online, they take instructions Sam can give them for warding, and Cas never paid enough attention to technology and the internet for Asmodeus to understand how fully they could still organize through it.

That night and every night, they fortify themselves out of necessity: during his withdrawal, Sam demonstrated for them how ill-advised it was for any of them to sleep unprotected, when Lucifer slid into his dreams and the ensuing nightmare nearly had Dean crashing the car, Sam biting his own tongue and bruising up Castiel with thrashing.

Coffee becomes their best friend, and their new family tradition continues.

Dean watches Cas’s look of pain and conflict as he phonetically transcribes the ‘angel exorcism’ that Alastair had nearly used on him years ago, knowing that Cas is thinking of how this could spread, how it could further cripple his brothers and sisters even if it’s necessary for the hunters to know in order to save Claire, or combat Lucifer or Michael if they show up in loaner vessels. Castiel’s drive-thru food sits untouched, burger still wrapped, fries turning rubbery and cold, and Dean can see Sam’s eyes darting to Cas regularly as well, a crease furrowing his brow, and he looks to Dean for something they can do.

“Y’know what, Sammy?” Dean says loudly enough to catch both of their attention, to keep them from funereal tones and moods. “. . . Go ahead and put on the Princess Bride while we’re working. Might as well, if you’re gonna keep throwing it at me.”

His little brother catches on immediately, and slides his laptop out of the case, dragging over the cooler again and setting it up in front of Cas. “‘As you wish.’”

“Quit flirting, you pervert. My ‘husband’ is _right there_.” Dean smirks, and snatches up their prep bag, divvying out the supplies for both of them to fortify with.

“You guys don’t _get_ to ‘skip to the end.’ We’re getting a wedding out of you eventually, Bobby and me. I refuse to lose fifty bucks when you didn’t even _actually_ elope.”

“Good to know our relationship exists for your entertainment, bitch.”

“Oh, suck it up, Buttercup. You wouldn’t have asked him if it wasn’t what you wanted, too.” Sam snipes, unrepentant.

“I’m _not_ Buttercup. And keep it up, best you’re getting is Vegas and an Elvis impersonator.”

“I can have Bobby on his way there in like five minutes, dude, just say the word.”

“. . . An Elvis impersonator who’ll argue with you about who has better sideburns. Hell, I’ll just stick _you_ in a sequined jumpsuit.”

“They’re terribly comfortable. I think everyone’ll be wearing them in the future.” Sam smirks, quoting the movie playing behind them.

“You’re _not_ Westley.”

The boys salt windows and doors, arguing the entire time like they’re twelve and deciding who gets to be the monster and who gets to be the hunter in a game (sometimes Sam doesn’t think Dean realizes how screwed up they were even as kids) as they assign roles, and eventually their levity becomes less forced and more genuine, though still strained by the depression that hangs on the silent Castiel like a shroud.

“If you didn’t want to be Fezzik, you should have left off growing that extra frikkin’ foot!”

“It’s not like you get to _choose_ how tall you are! And anyway, you don’t pick roles based on height, it’s about primary qualities . . .”

“You mean there’s more to you than your height?” Dean smirks faintly, and sidesteps when Sam goes to try and headlock him.

“Am I supposed to be able to watch this movie?” Castiel finally grouses, but the pinched look on his face has eased slightly, and his fries are gone. He glares at them from his spot on the floor in front of the laptop, his journal on his knee, and he’s already picking up a habit of clicking the pen against the side of his ring when irritated. “And you’re both wrong.” Turning back to the computer, Cas points with his pen at the screen. “Clearly. . . you are the interrupting child _. Both_ of you.”  

Silence greets him. A silence, admittedly, given in the form of Dean breaking free from Sam’s wrestling hold, and Sam flipping his hair back out of his face, both boys exchanging looks and trying not to be the first to laugh. The distraction worked, and Dean punches his brother in the shoulder affectionately before settling on the floor behind Cas, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck, folding himself around the fallen angel, thumbs gently pressing the knots out of his shoulders.

“Yeah, okay then ‘Gramps.’ You keep on thinking that.”

Sam shudders, and flings himself down into the camp chair beside them, letting himself watch the movie too now that their objective has been achieved. “You’re not allowed to call him Grandpa while necking. Too many incest jokes in one night. Living with you two’s scarred me enough without adding that in, I mean it.”

“Anybody want a peanut?”

Cas rolls his eyes, but allows himself to relax into Dean’s touch.

The arguments don’t really begin until Castiel commits the greatest heresy of all: he insults one of Dean’s favorite movies.


	4. Chapter 4

The I-80 run from Illinois to the Wyoming/Nebraska line may go down as one of the most boring stretches of interstate in existence. Sam’s pretty sure Dean could take his hands off the wheel for a few hundred miles and never once have to make an adjustment: arrow straight highway, and flat terrain as far as the eye can see. That, or the I-29 from just past Council Bluffs Iowa north all the way to the Canadian border. . . Sam’s got an experienced eye for Midwestern highway. This trip, though, Sam’s giving it to I-80 for boredom.

Because Dean _could_ take his hands off the wheel, and _could_ hold a conversation, but he won’t. Because he and his angel-boyfriend-husband-fiancé are both ‘brooding.’

No. Hell, Sam won’t even give Dean the benefit of his preferred vocabulary for something this ridiculous. If this were about the fact that the _world_ is _ending_ around them, he could accept ‘brooding.’ God knows (wherever he is) that they’ve all been doing that enough recently.

No. Dean is _pouting_. Cas is _sulking._ And somehow, they both think Sam has some part in this.

Flicking his fingers across the screen of his phone, Sam checks for updates one last time, accepting that his fictitious name is going to be charged out the wazoo for roaming data when he _knows_ that no one has hopped online in the last ten minutes and given them any sort of useful information. It’s better than getting death glares leveled on him by his brother for trying to touch the radio, or Castiel’s terse one-word responses (. . . not that Cas is a Chatty Cathy at the best of times) to direct questions. And he just can’t take it anymore.

“You know this is ridiculous, right?” The edginess has begun to recede since Missouri to a manageable state, and Sam’s proven he can gank a demon without succumbing to the urge to vamp on it, but this is ridiculous for them to expect even a sane, put-together Sam Winchester to tolerate for this long.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Castiel lies, his voice flat, and the man was still never going to win at poker, even if he was doing his best to burn a hole through the pages of his journal rather than look at anyone. Sam has to turn to even see him: the angel’s wedged against the passenger side rear door, literally as far away from Dean as he can get in the confines of the car.

“Yeah, because I couldn’t possibly be talking about the fact that you and Dean haven’t said a word to each other since last night. . .”

“We have too.” Dean rumbles, frowning at the empty interstate ahead of him. Turning his head, Sam fixes a scowl on his brother, which earns him an eyeroll. “Cut the bitchface, Sam. We’re fine.”

“Yeah. Because the touchiest couple in the frikkin’ world in separate sleeping bags over a _movie_? Completely normal.”

“We’re not _touchy_. . . ”

“Dude. Dean. Try that on someone who doesn’t live with you, okay? Your masculinity is intact despite the fact that I have photographic blackmail evidence that you’re a snuggler.”

“Way to be a creeper, Sammy.”

“And yeah, the whole grace thing. . .”

“I would prefer you not discuss that.” Cas mutters, and Sam throws his hands in the air, accepting the redirection.

“Fine then. Point being, I have to live with you two, and if you’re going to sulk over . . .” Both of his companions open their mouths to argue, and Sam raises his voice, talking over them. “. . . _sulk_ over a movie, I’m going to kick your asses.”

Silence reigns for all of thirty seconds, before Castiel shuts his journal and straightens in his seat. “I am not sulking over a movie.” The quelling look he fixes on Sam as the younger Winchester opens his mouth was straight up _I-will-smite-you_ Angel of the Lord, and maybe he doesn’t have the juice to back it anymore, but he can still be a scary-ass man when he wanted to be, now that he’s just a man. “The reaction to my stating an _opinion._ . .”

“Bullshit, Cas.” Dean explodes, and even though they’re on a straight and boring stretch of highway, Sam kinda wishes now that Dean would keep his hands on the wheel, because gesturing that emphatically didn’t seem conducive to him not running them into a ditch. “You started giving us the stink eye the moment Sam made a stupid joke about my first ‘guy-crush’. . .” Finger quotes and steering with his knees. Sam reassures himself that the highway’s still clear, while speaking up.

“Don’t start pretending you’re pissy because you’re defending _me_ , Dean. Because Cas didn’t say a word. . .”

“Contrary to what you believe, I am comfortable with the fact that you find many people, male and female, sexually attractive. . . ”

“Hey, mostly female!”

Two sets of incredulous eyes fix on Dean, and it was _freaky_ watching Cas make the same expression as his brother, because he’d patterned off of both Winchesters at some point. “. . . Not that it matters. . . y’know. Considering.”

“Considering you’re _marrying_ a guy.” Sam inputs helpfully, and somewhere in the last two minutes this had gone from being annoying and uncomfortable, to being. . . well, pretty frikkin’ hilarious. For Sam, at least. Benefits of not being the one in the middle of the pointless bitchfight. Now he can sit on the sidelines and offer sarcastic commentary until they get their shit together. Beats the hell out of Apocalypse Watch. “Kinda makes the whole straight-as-a-board act sorta a dick move. . .”

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” Dean glances into the tilted rearview to look at Cas, who meets his eyes and inclines his head slightly after a moment, their years of practice in having an entire conversation without saying a thing, to the exclusion of Sam, apparently conveying a silent apology. Cas is willing to overlook the last minute in favor of getting back to the argument. “I object to the fact that you take my voicing a negative opinion of something trivial as ‘blasphemy’ or ‘heresy’ . . .”

“Way to be dramatic, Cas.” Dean huffs. Sam takes great pleasure in interjecting again. Serves them right for cutting him out of half the conversation by doing the freaky staring thing again.

“He’s quoting you, dude. Your words.” When Dean cuts a glare at him, Sam shrugs, spreading his hands. “Hey, I can’t help it if _you’re_ the one that got all dramatic.”

“. . . Shut up, bitch.”

“I have listened to the two of you _actually_ blaspheme my father, my brothers, and _me_ , for the past six years. . .” Cas carries on over their interaction, and Sam braces his arm on the seat back, turned to look at both of them. “The movie was trite, trivializing serious matters and. . .”

“Dude, it’s _fiction_.”

“The Ark of the Covenant is _not_ fictitious.” Sam has the feeling he’d just gotten to the root of why he was getting sullen responses, too. After all. . . he had prayed using the plot of Indiana Jones to get Cas down to them in the middle of his war.  

“Are you planning on arguing every time someone gets angels wrong too? None of them _know_ , okay? You gotta put it aside. I mean, I can watch Ghostbusters and not bitch because _they_ got everything wrong. . .”

“Dad couldn’t.” Sam points out. “And _you_ can’t watch a show where they hold the guns wrong without yelling at the screen every time they clear a room.”

“Regardless.” Cas is getting irritated by their tangents, and it shows in his posture and his voice. Dean and Cas might communicate in eyesex, but the Winchester boys have been able to drag each other off-topic into random asides for decades now. “There is a significant difference in my expressing an opinion about a ‘fictitious’ movie. . .” jerky air-quotes and all “. . . and _blasphemy.”_

“You mean to tell me you were pissy all night because of _semantics_ , Cas?” Dean turns slightly to raise an eyebrow at Cas, an elbow braced on the seat back, and Cas blinks first, looking down at his journal. Dean’s lips twitch up into a victorious smirk, as he turns his eyes back to the road. “Like, at least fifty percent semantics, am I right? Maybe?”

“There was _no_ plot for the first twenty minutes of the movie, and the rest of it was a medley of chase scenes and poorly constructed butchery of religious . . .”

“Thirty percent semantics, twenty percent bad research? I’m thinking the rest of it is still back to Sam’s smartassed comment.” Dean Winchester’s primary superpower is in play again: he could piss off a stone. Sam sits back and waits for the inevitable fallout. He knows his brother is baiting Cas because otherwise Cas can sit around _brooding_ for hours on end, uninterrupted, but it still seems wise for Sam to try and get out of the way at this point. Nudging his brother’s elbow, Sam gestures at the signs indicating a truck stop ahead, and Dean waves him off, listening to Cas.

“And _the rest of it_ was in response to your overblown reaction to my disliking something that you enjoy.” Cas is glaring daggers at the back of Dean’s head, but he’s shifted away from the door, centered himself better on the back seat, and Dean adjusts the rearview accordingly. Sam remembers a time when the rearview was intended to let Dean see the road behind him, but these days its primary function seems to be letting him watch the angel in the backseat.  “My garrison spent millions of years watching the earth, thousands safeguarding the relics and weapons like the Arc of the Covenant and . . .”

“Wait, wait, lemme guess, The Cross of Coronado? The  Spear of Longinus? The Holy Grail?” Sam rolls his eyes, sighing at his brother. Dean’s Indiana Jones obsession hadn’t exactly been short-lived. Comics were cheap back then, and easy to hide in their book bags, and those recorded-from-TV VHS copies of the movies at Bobby’s had been nearly worn through after John left them over a summer for a long hunt. Dean had been just the right age to become obsessed when the The Last Crusade came out in theaters, and Indiana Jones was just the right combination of cowboy, lady’s man and adventurer to become one of Dean’s idols.

“Yes. Exactly.” Cas continues as if Dean hadn’t nearly rear-ended a minivan turning to gape at his matter-of-fact confirmation of Dean’s teasing while pulling into the truck stop. “And I do not appreciate their misrepresentation of. . .”

“I don’t think you guys need me for this.” Sam announces, though neither of them is listening to him at this point. He reaches behind Dean, actually putting himself in the middle of their conversation to snag his laptop bag from the floorboard of the back seat, and the bitchy, hoarse, fussy voice doesn’t stop and Dean manages to snark right around him.

Nope.

Sam wasn’t needed here.

Accepting that this is just one of those times that Sam’s going to have to play the good little brother and let things unfold as they may, Sam shoulders his bag as Dean steps out of the car to pump gas, but even then Cas has rolled down the back window, and they’re still talking.

The truck stop has WiFi, though, and a few battered formica tables, and coffee that’s dark as pitch. A few clicks and he’s on the message boards and his email, clarifying a few lines of text for Roland Campbell that were out of focus when he snapped a picture of the transcription on his cell phone, and confirming for Jodi Mills that another dozen hexbags were on the way for her, as she swore in new Deputies and continued attempting to secure Sioux Falls against the Apocalypse. A phone call with Bobby later and he knows there’s still no word on several contacts. Garth’s gone, apparently he bit off more than he could chew, but the Mormon group seems to be protected from on-high still by the angel Moroni, who Castiel would only describe as “eccentric” when pressed.

Sam’s managed to turn up three demonic omens (unsurprising considering the apocalyptic circumstances), another major catastrophe (they aren’t rescue workers, and they can’t stick around to rebuild towns after tornados and floods), rumblings of potential riots in LA (which could be everything or nothing, times are tense and it doesn’t always take a war any more to roil people into a frenzy), and what seems like vampires a few hours down the road.

The monsters were coming out in droves, stirred by both sides of the war in Hell: Lucifer’s side is telling them to stock up on the humans, to come out of the woodwork and weed them out, or start farming them, because the end is nigh. Crowley’s telling them to work with him, because after the humans are gone anything living off of them will go the way of the Dodo. Either way, though, it works out badly for humanity.

Scribbling down the information on the vamps, Sam only looks up when a trucker comes in, leaning over the low divide between the eatery and the convenience store sections and addressing a friend, jerking his thumb at the front window. “. . .want to say get a room to the gay guys making out in the parking lot.”

“Oh thank God, _finally_.” Sam exclaims before he realizes he spoke aloud, earning a few raised eyebrows from the locals and the truckers. If anyone has a problem with the “gay guys” they aren’t going to bring it up with the young giant unfolding himself from the table, though, and grabbing the deep-fried pocket of apple pie, a bag of M &Ms, and two more coffees as he shoulders his bag, Sam rejoins his brother and his best friend at the Impala.

Only to find he’s apparently lost shotgun.

Sighing, Sam knocks on the driver’s side window to get his brother’s attention and break them apart, and seriously, is there a quota for how much time they have to spend daily glued to each other? Are they making up for the separate sleeping bags all at once? “Pie. Coffee. Case.” Sam rattles off as he finally lets himself slide into the back seat of the car, handing snacks and drinks up to his brother and his brother-in-law (might as well get used to that idea, he _was_ getting a wedding out of them eventually).

Dean looks breathless and dazed. Cas looks like he stuck a fork in a toaster, with how tousled his hair is. Both of them look slightly embarrassed, and Sam’s been around them long enough to know it’s because of the fight, not because they were making out in the car like teenagers. And being the little brother of this trio, he can’t let it go. To be fair. He’d give Dean just as much hell if he’d been this whipped by a girl, too. And he _had_ just needed to poke at them verbally just to get them to this point.

“You two done now? Everyone kissed and made up?”

“Obviously. You interrupted.” Sam can never tell if Cas is being serious or deadpanning, but Dean snorts quietly in laughter and shifts back behind the wheel completely, and adjusts the rearview so it’s looking back behind them like it’s supposed to, as if he had no idea how it kept getting tilted crooked.

“So, we’re skipping Indiana Jones from now on?” Sam needles, and Dean shifts them into drive, but Sam’s pretty sure if he leaned forward he’d see Cas take his hand again, holding it as soon as he doesn’t need it to shift gears.

“Might wanna skip Monty Python, too. Though. . .” Though the look of abject horror that Cas would get watching their interpretation of God, or of the Holy Grail, might make the sulk the next day worth it for Dean. Sam smacks his brother on the shoulder, and tries to find a comfortable position with his long legs.

“Shoulder.” Cas warns Sam grumpily, as if it was his injuries Sam needed to be mindful of, rather than his brother’s, but Dean grunts and shrugs it off.

“We’ve got another vamp nest, I think, up the way.”

For the moment, the movies are forgotten for the case in front of them, again.

(Cas admits it was at least 20 percent needless jealousy that exacerbated the fight. But only to Dean.)


	5. Chapter 5

The Sierra Trading Post in Cheyenne, Wyoming is one of the largest businesses to grace the city. The boys split up when they enter the store, Dean making sure Cas had his phone on in the parking lot, before the fallen angel drifts away (as he always seemed to) and Sam and Dean separate: Sam toward the racks and rows of discount plaid and flannel and denim, and Dean towards supplies and gear, hauling bags of rock salt, coils of rope, knives, and poking through the hunting gear for something useful for _real_ hunting.

Cas is slow moving and quiet, and Dean seeks out the familiar shock of dark hair regularly, without closing in on him. Once again, the Winchesters were given the reminder that a fallen angel is monster-bait, and their particular angel is infamous with the purgatory crowd now. Dean knows beneath the jacket and the collar of his shirt, bandages and gauze cover nasty bites. The vamps closed in on Cas, smelled him coming, and while the Winchesters and Cas had wiped them out, they’d been damned persistent about getting a bite outta Cas.

Powerful stuff, angel blood. Big part of all the rituals they’d come across in the Purgatory mess with Cas, and several since then. And the vamps love it. Listening to them describe Cas’s blood as if it were something between a fine aged scotch, crack cocaine, or a flavor-orgasm was. . .

Creepy. It was creepy. And disturbing.

Overall, they’d pulled through fine. No worse for wear, in comparison to what they’d gone through recently, but Cas is pale, and Dean worries. So when the boys finish up their shopping and find Cas already sitting on the bench in front of the store, a single bag resting beside him as he watches shoppers drift in and out of the store with a sort of quiet, reverent fascination, Dean has to figure he’s wiped. It’s still early for them to be forting up anywhere, but Dean has Sam start googling for a likely place to settle, and drags Cas with him for burgers, pushing the red meat at the fallen angel who never needed much excuse for a bacon cheeseburger anyway (and if that didn’t prove he was Dean’s angel, Dean didn’t know what would).

They still miss when, sitting in the back seat with his head resting against the window, Cas accidentally lets his eyes drift shut and regains awareness in a dim, familiar room. Light slants through windows covered in dust and Enochian blood sigils that are just slightly off, flaws in the design. It smells like books, like whiskey and like Old Spice cologne, and Castiel’s consciousness adds in the undertone of charred wood as soon as he realizes that this place cannot exist.

Bobby Singer’s home in Sioux Falls burned to the ground, when Hell and Heaven began their hunt for him, after the fall.

This is a dream. Castiel knows it instinctively, just as he knows he has not been mentally yanked back to Heaven once again. Just as he knows that he is not alone in the dreamscape. Turning, soaking in a room that had meant more to him and to the boys than he had realized until it was all gone, Castiel addresses the still figure sitting behind Bobby Singer’s old desk, without needing to look.

“Hello, Michael.”

“Castiel.”  Months back, in San Antonio, an old colleague of John Winchester had mistaken Castiel for one of Winchester’s ‘boys.’ Looking at the borrowed face of the young John, Castiel can almost see how the misunderstanding could have been made. Strong features, dark hair, vibrant eyes, the patron of the Winchesters was nearly the portrait of what an angelic vessel should be, of what Jimmy Novak had been.

Of what Dean Winchester was a paragon.

Hands steepled before his lips, elbows resting on the battered surface of the desk, Michael stares at Castiel blatantly, analytically, a general assessing a soldier, and Castiel finally lets his gaze settle on his oldest brother, his commander for millions of years, whom many of the Seraphim had idolized as next to God. . . Castiel among them.

Whom Castiel had last seen in the Cage, in Hell, as he pulled Sam Winchester’s body away from them.

Whom Castiel had last spoken to with a shouted expletive punctuated by a Molotov Cocktail of Holy Fire.

Castiel had made his change of loyalties perfectly clear, in that moment. Standing before his brother now, he doesn’t buckle, doesn’t duck his head. That Castiel had been ashamed, afraid: the Cas who had needed to be pulled away from Zachariah’s wary stare before he could act, the one who had to resort to treacherous backstabbing against Michael in order to rebel, the one who had stammered when Lucifer turned to him just before ending his existence, had been beaten away by war against another brother, another superior, another Archangel. That man had burned away with his fall, and those scars healed by the forgiveness of the one person from whom he’d ever sought it.

If he is going to die now, he will do it as a part of the family he has joined, as a Winchester. Straight backed and stubborn.

“I’m not going to kill you.” Michael remarks, speaking aloud an interjection into Castiel’s thoughts, and Cas’s eyes narrow perceptibly, and though he knows this is not real he can feel his muscles tensing nonetheless as he clamps down on his thoughts protectively. Asmodeus’s violation of his mind is still too fresh a wound for him to be comfortable with telepathy now. “I need your help.”

“I know what you need, Michael. You will not get it.”

“What are you hoping to accomplish, Castiel? You are running aimlessly, fighting a losing battle and managing to save a few meager human lives, at the expense of the _world_. The Winchesters. . .”

“Are none of your concern. Nor Lucifer’s. You will not take them from me.” This is perhaps the most blatant show of possessiveness Castiel has ever allowed himself, far away from the eyes of the Winchesters, in the privacy of his own mind. Michael could destroy him, and he knows it. But Raphael could have as well, and still he fought against him. This is a Winchester trait. Fighting when hopelessly outmatched. It was one of the first lessons Dean had taught him.

_If there’s anything worth dying for. . ._

Then the Winchesters were it.

“You are going to sacrifice the _world_ for the sake of two men.” Michael is attempting to sound reasonable, to appeal to a rationality that Castiel has been missing for years, one tactical mind to another. “Dean was prepared to listen to reason before, and he would again if you would give it to him. We can end this battle. . .”

“You would destroy the world just as readily as Lucifer, Michael. It isn’t about saving humanity for you, it is about being a puppet to our Father’s grand plan. None of us are playing a role: you can choose, just as well as they can. Our Father has acted, has made clear that he supports free will, and that we can have it too. You’ve spoken to Gabriel, I know that he is. . .”

If anything, Michael’s expression shuts down farther. Cas narrows his eyes and clips his words short, coming to his conclusion. “You don’t intend to listen. You have chosen a course of action already, and you will not be derailed, not by myself or by Gabriel or even by our Father.”

“I could say the same of you.” Michael counters, and Cas inclines his head slightly, accepting that as fact.

There is nothing Michael can say that will convince Cas that he should give up his claim to Dean and to Sam, or abuse their acceptance of him to turn them to Michael and Lucifer’s plans again. Asmodeus had said that Castiel had stolen the vessels, marked the Michael Sword for his own, and perhaps she wasn’t wrong.

Dean is _his_.

“You never gave _him_ choice.” Michael says once again, eyes fixed on Cas, and there was no questioning that he was discussing Dean. His tone has changed, pointed and harsh, a counterargument, and pressing his hands to the desk he rises to his feet, a figure of immeasurable power and righteous wrath. “You talk to me about giving Dean Winchester freedom, but never granted it to him yourself.  You marked him as yours before he ever spoke to you. You thrust your Grace into him as you resurrected him. You obligated him with your fall, your obsession. How much of what you think he feels for you is your own devising? You _made_ him. . .”

“ _Cas! Cas, wake the hell up, man!_ ”

Dean Winchester’s eyes are vibrant summer green, a sunburst of golden hue circling the irises, flecking through the jade in motes of light and color that seem all the more beautiful when backed with emotion. They’re captivating when alight in laughter, and hypnotic when wide in fear. Blinking, Castiel focuses on them and lets the dream drain away, the danger with it, but the foreboding and guilt has formed a pit in his stomach.

It’s a moment longer before Cas can think beyond staring at Dean, and he raises a hand to touch his own cheek, wincing at the sting. “Did you just slap me?” he asks groggily.

From the front Sam laughs in relief, and Dean slumps as the tension leaves him, kneeling on the back seat beside Cas. The fallen angel drops his hand to his shoulder, wincing where the awkward angle of his neck has left him with a crick where already there was pain from savage bites from the vampires, and slowly he pushes himself upright completely. They’ve pulled over into a weed-ridden empty lot, and Cas can see a vacant building before them.

This is their lives now. On the run, living like vagrants, losing a war even when they win battles. He brought this to them: from the moment he joined them after his fall, he had started a countdown on the Apocalypse, restarted in his blood and his failure. But he’s known joy, here, and so has Dean. So has Sam.

He doesn’t want to lose this.

He doesn’t want Dean to feel obligated, though.

“You okay, Cas?” Dean asks, as Cas fumbles into the pocket of his trench coat for the plastic bag he’d pocketed earlier in the day to hide it, and the small box within. Dropping the bag to the floorboard, he pushes the box into Dean’s hand, his own shaking, and swallows heavily.

Dean’s watching Cas as if he’s afraid his trip to dreamland left him with permanent brain damage. “Cas, what’s going on? What’s this. . .”

“ _That_ is a _choice_.” Cas’s voice is hoarse and unsteady still from the dream, and from his nervousness, and he straightens as Dean opens the box. The ring is simple, silver, and plain: even if Castiel had known anything about human jewelry it would have been, reflective of Dean’s tastes rather than the ornate southwestern style nonsense that had been beneath the glass counter at the Sierra Trading Company’s tiny jewelry center, wedged next to pocket knives and dog tags. The only decoration to it was thrown in with the purchase, by a girl who’d looked at him like he was crazy before scanning the scrawled symbol into the system and letting it etch the sigil.

He knows he won’t need to explain it. They’d leaned over a map of Castiel’s memories together, Cas translating each Enochian mark for every city they’d visited. This one graces Whitefish, the spot of their long-delayed confession to each other. _Love_.

Dean had marked Castiel in the human fashion, put a ring on him, and it _meant_ something to the hunter. Cas had mulled over the thought for days before deciding to return the favor when he had the chance. He has already laid his mark into Dean’s very soul, but as Michael had said: he did it long before Dean truly knew him, and _he_ had done it. It had never been something Dean chose for himself. Staring at Cas, Dean’s brow unknits slightly, but there’s still concern in his eyes as he plucks the silver ring from the cotton batting and puts it on his own finger without hesitation, looking Castiel in the eyes the entire time.

Cas breathes out a sigh of relief, and lets himself slump back against the door behind him again. In the front seat, Sam looks back and forth between his brother and the angel in bafflement and vague disappointment. “Seriously?”

Green eyes and blue turn back to the youngest member of their family, who shakes his head at both of them, exasperated. “That’s two proposals I’ve seen from you guys. _Two._ And you _both_ suck at it.” Flinging open the Impala’s door, Sam walks out muttering about their hopelessness as he goes to check the perimeter for other squatters and signs of past use.

“You’re going to tell me what that was all about.” Dean informs Cas matter-of-factly, before joining their hands together and pulling the angel out of the car with him, stopping by the trunk to grab their gear. Before he closes it, Cas reaches in and snags his other purchase, and takes the salt out of Dean’s hands over his protests.

He’s tired, not seriously injured, and at the moment he is fairly certain he could do _anything_. He doesn’t have much experience with euphoria outside of pharmaceuticals, but he finds he likes this better. Much better. He wonders if that makes Dean his drug of choice.

He wonders if that matters.

When Dean leans in and kisses him, slow and searing even with their lips the only point of contact between them, both of their hands full carrying their things, Cas stops wondering at all. This is _right_. The thing he is most certain of in the world. And he will not let Michael make him question it.

He explains the dream in brief, leaving out the ploys that would leave the boys guilty, as they divide up the tasks to safeguard them in their sleep. After a few choice words on Dean’s part, the topic drops: another failed attempt to turn them, but for the moment. . . there is no temptation to it.

The building smells of yeast and bread and sweets, an abandoned bakery if Sam is correct, and Cas finds it a strangely soothing scent that seems to have permeated the wooden floors and stucco walls. He hopes it will provide comfort to any who come here seeking shelter after them, as Sam will post the address of the fortified building on the hunters network website once they are well clear, leaving another “Bring Your Own Salt” safehouse for any who have been routed from their homes by Asmodeus’s hunt or Crowley and Lucifer’s war. He thinks of them as he carefully paints into place the sigils that would protect them, and smiles to himself faintly at the stream-of-consciousness that brings him back to the sigil Dean now wears.

A few feet down from him, laying salt in a line, Sam snorts as he gets a look at the angel, and listens to Dean humming AC/DC off-key to himself deeper in the room while getting their things together. Dean and Cas were hopeless, but good for each other.

“What’re we watching tonight?” He pipes in just to break them out of their respective sappy silences, to restart conversation between all three of them, half turning to look at his brother for the answer that comes, instead, from Cas as he finishes his sigils.

“I would like to take a turn. You two selected the last movies.”  

In unison, both Winchesters turn to raise an eyebrow at Castiel, bemusement written in every line of their faces. Thus far, while Castiel has been the focus of their movie nights (. . . or rather, the _excuse_ for their movie nights) he hasn’t exactly contributed to choosing the films. He has no frame of reference for any of them, apart from titles, and . . . well, the word ‘clueless’ generally came to mind when the topic was pop culture.

But, he is the one that got vamped on, and then an archangel parading around in his head, which makes him the injured member of their trio, which gives him the right of preference. He’s the one that they’re doing this for. And if nothing else, they’re curious: Sam turns to Dean, who shrugs one shoulder to indicate he has no idea what’s going on, and they both look to the angel as he turns around, blue eyes wide and hopeful.

Damnit.

_Puppy-dog eyes._

Dean caves.

“Okay, Cas. Whatever you want.” Sam can roll his eyes if he wants, but he knows and abuses that weakness himself, and Dean doesn’t care if it gets him called whipped again anyway, because Cas lights up, blue eyes bright and lips twitching into the faint smile that made Dean wonder how they’d ever thought he was expressionless.

Thirty minutes later he’s cursing the frikkin’ puppy-dog eyes and both of the men who frikkin’ abuse that talent because there’s a British voice coming out of Sam’s computer speakers and who the hell knew Sierra Trading Post sold _documentaries_.

“Seriously, Cas? Planet Earth? That’s just. . . that’s just awesome.”

“It is.” Cas agrees, and Dean thinks he _chooses_ to miss the sarcasm sometimes, like he can undo six years of watching them and seven months of living with their idea of humor, just to be endearingly clueless because it lets him get away with things like putting on _Planet Earth_ during a frikkin’ movie night. “ _This_ is what we’re trying to save. . .”

“Cas, pretty sure Lucifer was cool with the whole planet-thing, it’s the us-thing he wants to get rid of. Humans.” British-Voice Guy has got to be an auditory sedative of some sort, because Dean swears they’ve only had this on a little while, and he’s already fighting the urge to sleep. Cas is a warm presence next to his side, the wall is solid against his back, and the slow, familiar, steadying sound of him sharpening one of the myriad knives he kept on him now is lulling him even farther to sleepiness.

“Humans are the species with the capacity to appreciate beauty and wonder.” Cas is earnest, downright animated, and captivated by the images on the screen. Even Sam is paying attention to the film almost as much as the conversation, and great. Just great. He was marrying a _nerd_. “The box said it would discuss the scientists and the videographers that. . .”

“. . . So you want to save the world for documentary filmmakers.” He can’t miss the sarcasm now. Even Cas isn’t that clueless. Sam reaches over and smacks Dean’s shoulder again (Cas tuts, and pushes Sam away, once again fussing over a shoulder that was already mostly healed) and Cas blatantly disregards Dean’s opinion of the show. Flat out ignores it, instead pointing out the paths of bees, or the mating habits of birds of paradise, or something.

Dean wouldn’t know.

He’s studying the insides of his eyelids intently.

Cas smiles faintly to himself as Dean’s head finally droops onto his shoulder, and carefully reaches over to move the knives away from them, sliding an arm around Dean’s waist and cradling him against his side. He’ll give up the pretense of work for a while, this time, resting his cheek against the top of Dean’s head and watching the beauty of his Father’s work, while holding the most precious of His creations.

Sam looks up from the screen to share a laugh with his brother over the strangeness of the bird’s behavior, only to shake his head again, laughing to himself instead.

No showy puffing of feathers or random flashes or colors or hopping dances would ever compare to the strange six year mating ritual of an angel and a hunter.


End file.
